


/frɛnd/:

by sonshineandshowers



Series: relations [1]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Post 1x13, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:34:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22564825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: If he cooked her dinner, was that a friend thing, or a more than friend thing?Post 1x13, Dani and Bright try to define friend.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Dani Powell
Series: relations [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1640806
Comments: 20
Kudos: 176





	/frɛnd/:

If he cooked her dinner, was that a friend thing, or a more than friend thing? Bright could cook? Bright could _cook_. But he wasn’t eating. Dani had hoped if she agreed to dinner he’d at least eat _something_. Yellow curry sung in her mouth, yet languished on his plate.

“Stomach’s not right,” was all he had said when she had stolen a few too many glances. Maybe he thought he’d be able to try to eat if he put it in front of him. Maybe he thought she’d feel odd if she were the only one eating. Not odd, just sad.

He rambled on the many confounding factors of fluffy snow formation. Appropriate temperature at the appropriate height - not too warm, not too cold. No pockets of warm air before it reached the ground. For some reason they didn’t want needles or columns, though she had no idea why. She ate the remainder of her rice, looked out the window at the falling snow, and let him continue on, for no other reason than he seemed calm. And _happy_.

“Can I get you dessert?” he asked, clearing away their plates.

Dessert sounded like a more than friend thing. An innuendo that got them from the bartop to the bedroom. Or not bedroom, in Bright’s case - bed platform? Raised on a pedestal for all to see. But he doesn’t sleep with…so, not the bed? Where…? Definitely a more than friend thing. “No dessert.”

“You could have _premium_ lemon jello.” He shook a container at her from the fridge, attempting to wobble her decision.

A twist to the side of her mouth. “No, that’s okay.”

“You’re missing out.” He returned the container to the fridge.

Yeah. She needed to chill. Her friend had just gotten a cast removed from his hand. Gil had banned him from the precinct to put his self care first after…she had yet to completely understand. Cry for help? Hallucination? Being so damn tired of being tired? Some combination of all that and then some? But he'd come right back and they'd gone gallivanting, avoiding what ailed him. And she was sitting in his kitchen, thinking about the line between friend and more than. Some friend.

“Can we play one of the games you brought?” Malcolm asked, giddiness speeding his words. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d played a game in his loft. That was something he had done - right?

“Sure.” An opportunity to extricate herself from the stool and go setup by the couch. Games would give them something to do that wasn’t Bright rambling or she trying to distract herself without looking too awkward. She’d brought games so Bright could have some much needed fun. A pure friend thing.

She had everything out of the box when he sat next to her on the couch. “An escape room game!” he exclaimed, his hands moving with excitement. “We get to solve a mystery!”

She warmed with joy at the grin across his face and hands already rifling through the contents. Fun. A pure friend thing.

* * *

There were so many pieces of paper. For escape rooms typically being filled with tactile explosion, the game version was flat by comparison. They sorted the sheets into piles of evidence, flipping back and forth between clues and distraction. “I have a lead,” Dani announced, handing him two pieces of paper.

“It’s a cipher. There wasn’t fire under the big top.” He created a new pile of solved puzzles.

She rolled her eyes. “Of course you didn’t need a pencil.”

He brushed off the comment. “You can hit this one with your phone,” he handed her a QR code.

She scanned it and a voice came through her speakers. “Inks, and kinks, and oversized shoes, but the criminal didn’t have any tattoos.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Where did you get this game?”

“Friends keep sending them as gifts. Goes with the job, I guess.” Friends. Like her friend currently exhibiting boundless exuberance over solving a made up crime committed by made up people. Working his way through a game she'd never used. She didn't even know the last time she'd played a game at her apartment. Besides, who would have played _this_ game with her?

He sifted through one of the piles. “Looks like we have some kind of color thing and a word association puzzle we might be able to do next.”

“I’ll take the colors.” The less frustrating of the two.

He was spouting more observations from completing his puzzle before she'd gotten halfway through hers. But his eyes glowed with purpose, and with each subsequent puzzle solved, his smile returned. So very Bright. Her friend.

* * *

Malcolm leaned against her, his mind wandering. The card they had discarded as advertisement sat in his lap, taunting them that they had failed to go to the Facebook page and get the last clue to successfully solve the mystery. “That’s dumb,” Dani had scoffed. He’d played with the card, turning it over and over until she’d stilled it.

He'd been silent since they hadn't had something to focus on any longer. She didn't know if he was consciously leaning against her, or if his body was seeking warmth; some reminder there was another human who cared for him. She smelled his hair, trying to discern the fruity scent. She'd made it to cherry when he asked, "What did it feel like when you went through withdrawal?"

Oh. A very different part of her life brought up in a plain question by her friend who no longer sounded happy. Not that she was either; there were few subjects she wanted to talk about less. But it was long enough ago, and she should be able to talk about it. She scratched the memory on her arms and somewhat reluctantly answered, "Couldn't focus on anything. Kept getting the chills. Headaches sometimes."

He quieted again, not replying for awhile. Did he sense her hesitation? The way she'd stiffened at the question? Or was he processing? “They’re adjusting my meds because…well…everything. It’s not withdrawal…side effect is a better term. I just feel…off.” A response so reserved and poignantly honest she wanted to hug him. To release an ounce of the burden he carried.

“Can I get you anything?” she asked. Her fingers soothed through his hair before she registered they were in motion, and she sequestered them to the back of the couch when she did.

He waved his fingers in the air and got to his feet. He was across the room and almost to the bathroom when he remembered the word he had been looking for. "Weighted blanket."

Shit. Did she spook him? Or was he so deep in his mind he didn't notice? Or did he not care? She was walking on the line, her eyes only seeing more than friend things. She needed to step. back. from the line.

She busied herself with his request to regain distance. Weighted blanket? Couldn’t he have asked for something she'd have any hope of knowing where to find? She wouldn’t open every door and drawer looking. Would she? It was exactly the behavior she worried about if Bright were to ever enter her apartment - opening everything with his curious gaze. She wouldn’t do it. She would look in a few common spots and wait for him if she couldn’t find it. She would.

Forty-five minutes later, she still didn’t have the weighted blanket. She didn’t have Bright either. It was endlessly difficult not to knock on the door. She knew exactly where he was, and yet she carried the same irrational fear she wouldn't find him or he'd be hurt by the time she did.

Shower after shower, and he still twitched feeling dirt somewhere, trying to cleanse his trembling emotions down the drain. He was on some sort of rollercoaster, but why was she riding with him?

Where was that line again? On the ramp up the steep hill, or after the harrowing drop? Thoughts consumed with her friend on the other side of the door, she couldn't see it.

She was conferring with Sunshine when he emerged. He and his weighted blanket took up residence on the floor, a haphazard bundle leaning against the couch. She sat catty-corner to him, sparing a glance overtop of her knees. No wonder she hadn’t found the weighted blanket. It drooped his whole body; even his eyes lidded.

What else was Martin Whitly lying about? Had Malcolm practiced cutting technique to become a doctor or become The Surgeon? Why was Malcolm in the hobby room? Was he being curious, or did something else bring him there? When would Martin Whitly have tried to kill him? Would he _still_ try to kill him? He had wretched, but only cleared stomach acid. He couldn't purge the semblance of memories.

She set her hand on the floor between them and waited. Thumbed through her phone like she could see anything other than her friend suffering beside her. And waited. Gave him the space she so desperately craved when her foundation melted from her tears. She didn’t usually have a hand to reach for - maybe she could give him one.

His hand peeked out and settled into hers. Perhaps she hadn't spooked him. "What time is it?" he asked.

"Almost ten,” she read from her phone.

More lost time. "Can you read something? Anything." A faint request to ease the silence.

She set her phone aside. This, she could do. She relied on stories to talk to the kids at the soup kitchen. They came in handy every once in a while when there were kids at crime scenes. Now she just needed to come up with one for Bright. “Once upon a time, there was a little parakeet named Sunshine. She liked fruit and seeds and talking with humans," she started.

"And toys. Lots of toys," Malcolm added.

"Sunshine had _all kinds_ of adventures. Resting on fingers, hopping on shoulders, dancing around the loft." She panned the room as she furthered the story.

"That's why mother doesn't like her - the mess." So there were asides.

She shrugged. "Easy enough to clean up."

He squeezed her hand, prompting her to continue.

"Sunshine sang _all kinds_ of songs. _Dancin’ in the Moonlight_. _Under the Sun_. _House of Glass_. _Sunday Morning Coming Down_.“ She listed the web of songs that first came to mind.

His eyes finally opened, tilting over in comic judgement. “Quite the party.”

Her lips quirked. “She’s an eclectic bird.”

“She likes _Chasing the Sun_. The beat.” He bobbed his head like his bird.

“She chirped and brought a smile to everyone’s day.” His foot appeared from the blanket and she tapped it with her own.

"You take really good care of those around you," Malcolm shared.

She looked away. "Thanks."

“Could I have a hug?" A request so quiet and guarded for a negative response. Like she hadn't hugged him when they found him after Watkins, hadn't hugged him when she saw him safe in the hospital, hadn't hugged him when she visited him at home. Of course she would hug her friend.

She slid across the floor and wrapped her arms around him, his head resting against her shoulder. No, she hadn't spooked him. But all his vibrance had come out in the wash.

He pulled back, letting the blanket fall to around his waist. “Another one of your games?”

“Maybe we’ll win this time." She could only hope. Being a detective and being outwitted by a fictional case was...frustrating.

He scratched his head, covering the tremor in his hand. He didn't get company. He wanted it. He wanted _hers_. “I know it’s getting kind of late. You can have upstairs for the night if you want.”

When he'd come home from the hospital, he'd been difficult to visit. His mother had had him swamped, leaving little air for others. She'd thought a visitor would offer him a bit of a reprieve, yet it had only made things worse with him worrying over interactions with his mother _and_ his mother fussing over him. She hadn't returned until his mother had vacated the premises. Now she could offer him what she couldn't then.

“It’s not late, old man,” she teased. “But I’ll take it. You have me for the weekend if you want.” Was the line... _moving_?

Friends didn’t leave struggling friends. They stuck it out until they found their way through the shit. Got covered in shit themselves wrestling them out if they had to.

But he didn't move to get up. She retrieved another box and started sorting the contents in front of them.

"Thanks, Dani." His words carried the weight of more than crossing the room.

She picked up the starting booklet. "You've wandered into a _magical_ forest."

* * *

The deep drone of an engine echoed through the ground. A whoosh graced the trees, peeling back their branches to see what it might find. Hovering. Cowering. Then silence returned.

Distant footsteps had him on his feet again, crunching through the woods. He sped as the breeze carried nearer: “Bright! Bright! Malcolm!”

As fast as he ran, they caught up. Hands had him darting across the ground, scrambling for any purchase to get away. Another set of arms moved more cautiously, offering a warm, “Malcolm, you’re safe.”

He fell into the man who had looked out for him for twenty years, hiding in his chest. A hand fell into his hair, soothing him.

As he relaxed into his care, the hand yanked his head back, and instead of Gil’s eyes were Martin’s, hope replaced with desolation, comfort traded for fear. “No - no - no - no - no,” he jittered, twisting his head and trying to escape.

But he dragged him back toward the cabin.

“Noooo!”

Malcolm shot up in bed, struggling against the restraints. He couldn’t be subjected to any more _anything_. He jerked his hands, yet couldn’t get loose. Fire shot from his hand, up his arm, and a shout of pain released from his lips. “Ahhh!”

Pulling again, he found himself able to burst across the room, darting into the bathroom and leaving Dani in his wake.

* * *

She oscillated between knocking on the door and continuing to give him space. Half-hearted attempts to distract herself with making breakfast, tea, and tidying nonexistent mess kept her at the distance he needed. She worried the bottom of the sweatshirt she had retrieved from the go-bag in her car before they went to bed. She knew he'd be behind that door regardless if she were there or not and got by being thankful she was there for her friend.

When he returned, he sat at the bar and undid his cuffs onto it. “Did you unhook me?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

“Coffee, tea, breakfast?” she asked, gesturing at the items in front of her.

He reached for his pills instead, twisting each of the lids off, doling out a pill, and returning the lid. “Do you have everything you need upstairs?”

“It’s fine. Bigger than my whole apartment,” she teased. There was a gorgeous tub she'd gladly sink into and well lit vanity she could actually see her face in. The bed had _way_ too many pillows, but there were worse problems to have. She was used to sleeping on friend's couches, floors. Not _suites_.

“Comes with the vibrant amenity of screaming.” His lips pulled in a wayward smile.

"Adds a little somethin' to the place." She sipped at her coffee. “What are you up for today?”

He rushed to clarify, “You really don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.”

She tsked. “What did I say last night?”

“You’d go if I wanted you to, otherwise I had you for the weekend," he recounted.

Her brow raised the question. “And? Do you?”

“No.” Her leaving didn't grace his top ten list. Her leaving didn't grace _any_ list.

“So what do you feel up to?” she repeated.

“Does laying in bed count?” he joked. The truth was only a bit more buoyant. He filled a mug - maybe coffee would help.

“Always.” Her curls bobbed in agreement.

It wasn't something his therapist advised. Hell, it wasn't something he advised. He needed to stick to a routine that he would do...later. “How about the park?”

“Sure.”

* * *

East River Park carried a healthy dusting of snow on every surface reachable. Light breeze creeped through his neck, leaving him to wonder if he had abandoned his scarf too early. His eyes panned across the park, scanning his surroundings.

What was she doing? How had she willingly offered to keep him company? Offer him…respite? Companionship? A haven warmer than his floor? How did her expressions carry through to her curls? Did his hair do that too? Did the strands reach for help when his mouth couldn’t?

“Bright!” she called for him from several feet away.

He looked up from his thoughts to a snowball hitting him in the center of the chest. He stood still for a moment, blinking, digesting what had just happened. And stepped off the sidewalk, shot his hand into the snow, and hurled back a snowball of his own. That broke apart before it reached her.

Dani ran, quickly trying to get more ammunition and outmaneuver him. His eyes glinted at the competition, his smile wide every time he connected and just as wide when she got him back in return.

He fell somewhere between running from her and reloading and held his hands up in mercy when she pelted him three times in a row. “You win, you win,” he said, and she was soon at his side helping him up from the ground.

"You good, tough stuff?" she asked as he brushed himself off.

"You have siblings," he deduced.

"Yes. C'mon."

* * *

They sat at a bench underneath the Williamsburg Bridge, resting beside each other. His hip buzzed and he ignored it, favoring giving her his undivided attention. When his hip buzzed again, she noted, "You're a popular guy."

"Sorry, just a second." He took his phone out of his pocket to find more calls from his father stacking up and disabled notifications. “Martin Whitly special. Gil wants me to go on vacation, but there’s nowhere I can go to escape him.”

His fingers fidgeted on his knee, and when he realized she noticed, he tried to hide them. "It's okay," she shared.

“Giving it something to do.” He showed her the coins in his hand, then returned it to his pocket. “Where would you go on vacation?”

It had been a bit since she had taken a _real_ one. “Train to Boston, maybe. Or Philly.”

He pictured the locations, envisioning himself there. Her there. “Not someplace…further? Warmer?”

“Kind of expensive. Maybe for a special trip. I did Atlantic City with a girlfriend in the summer once - that was _warm_. Think it sweat out the relationship.”

Malcolm gave a slight laugh. “I don’t want to go anywhere," he admitted.

“Then don’t. But if you want warm, maybe Jamaica, Aruba," she suggested. “Or rebook your plane to Tahiti. You already have the suit for it." She pushed his knee. Maybe he didn't know the options. Didn't want to put effort into researching them when he could use it for other things more valuable to him. Or maybe it was exactly what he said - he didn't want to go - anything he cared about got maximum effort.

He rested his fingers on top of hers. “Could give you the vacation instead.”

Oh, she wouldn't put it past him, but it wasn't happening. “Funny.” She took in his whole body shake. “You’re cold - let’s go.”

The entire trip back, they traded fancily named colors to pass the time, Malcolm insisting it was a way to observe more of the world around them, Dani knowing it kept him more in touch with it. "Ochre,” he pointed to a sign above a storefront.

"Cyan." The awning on a passing shop.

"Aubergine." A billboard in the distance.

"Chartreuse." Trim on windows a few stories up.

"Umber." A menu tacked outside a café.

"Mahogany." Chairs stacked inside a restaurant.

“Licorice." He ruffled her hair.

Friends did that. Right?

* * *

Parakeets made so. much. noise. Sunshine chattered away, happy as could be, exploring the world of her loft. Loose while her human was wound.

If Bright tossed the racquetball against the wall one more time, Dani was going to lose it. She knew he had energy he couldn't work out. After lunch, she had sat through a diatribe on why overnight shipping was the worst, made it through his pattering of stair work, and even his laps around the loft while muttering who knew what, but she needed space. She needed - “You good for a bit if I head to the gym? There’s one in my chain a few blocks over.”

“You can go home if you want.” And the ball thwacked the wall again, bouncing against the floor and returning to his hand so he could repeat the same.

Her patience for the statement was gone, warping attitude into, “Do you want me to?”

Still didn't. Wouldn't change either. “No.”

Her hand carved into her hip. “So I’m gonna go to the gym for a little while and come back. Capeesh?”

“Sure.” Thwack.

* * *

Did Bright know how ridiculously annoying he could be? Of course he did. But it was also a part of _him_. Without the bursts of energy, he might not have the same drive to complete a profile, to chase criminals to the ends of the Earth, to help people.

She huffed resting the kettlebell back on the ground. Didn’t mean he was any less annoying at times.

Tito had been annoying, but in a take away her voice sort of way. That wasn’t Bright. Bright wasn’t anything like the man who had demeaned her at the club when she had the _gaul_ to call him out for continually interrupting her, shushing her, physically pushing her away from a conversation. Whipped an open palm that pinked her face when she pushed back. What had she been thinking? She had more self worth than that. She didn’t go near people like that anymore.

Celine liked her hair straightened. All. the. time. Left Swedish Fish in her apartment. Nabbed her clothes. Estimé liked to get high. Well, she did too. Maybe they shared that annoyance.

Funny how she kept running the treadmill and never got anywhere. Some of her sexual encounters couldn’t be classified as anything more than want, leaving behind satisfaction and sometimes emptiness. All she had to show for her relationships were a bunch of experiences she never wanted to repeat, trust issues that overshadowed future relationships, and a drug habit that had left her avoiding anything stronger than coffee. Didn’t get anywhere, but she was _alive_.

Bright was too. Thankfully. Some days she didn’t know how. He showed a positive interest in her life she’d been missing, asked _a lot_ of questions, sometimes _too_ many. Talked about her beyond her appearance, though she knew he had thoughts on that too. He had thoughts on _everything_. It was a small wonder he didn’t ticker tape them all, though sometimes it seemed he tried.

Why exactly was she comparing her past relationships to Bright? He’d have some psychoanalysis to explain it, she was sure. She didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t want to hear anything but the music blasting in her ears.

She had to _stop_. Lunges across the gym had her legs shaking. She did squats until her thighs were on fire. By the time she cooled down walking the perimeter of the gym, silence carried in on the aches in her muscles.

She’d let her sweat ice her skin on the way back to Bright’s. His shower was nicer, and perhaps the chill would freeze her in the present.

* * *

Were those candles? The whole place smelled like…lavender? Where was he?

A sliver of guilt crept into her empty stomach. Rationally, she knew he was in a spot she had yet to see. Emotionally, a part of her saw her choice to step out as selfish and scolded herself to be more patient. That to be there for her friend, she actually needed to be...there.

Her gaze swept until she found him sitting beside his bed, eyes closed, candles on the windowsill. Wrapped in what she'd come to recognize as his weighted blanket. She crossed in front of him. “You good?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he responded without opening his eyes. No crinkled brow, no strain around his eyes. Peaceful.

“Gonna shower. Be back soon.”

* * *

Dinner was already started when she returned. A big pot he was sliding cubed potatoes into, scallions lying in wait on the side. Soup. A spike next to the cutting board revealed how he was prepping mostly one-handed while he regained strength in his recently freed hand. If she were in his shoes, she wouldn't have bothered - would have gone pre-cut veggies, anything simple, or anything she could throw in the microwave.

"You don't have to do that,” she nudged, taking a banana and stepping beside him.

He looked away from stirring and smiled at her. “You can cook tomorrow."

"I'll hold you to that." She patted between his shoulders, took a bite of her banana, and snagged a spot at the bar. Her spot. She’d sat on the same stool a couple times now.

“How was the gym?” he asked.

“Uneventful.”

“Did you pump twice your body weight in iron?” That smile was back again along with mischief in his eye.

She laughed. “It’s not like that.” She shifted her hips on the stool, settling in. "I kinda like my space, y’know? Exercise clears my head.”

"Yeah, I get that.”

Her banana peel went in the compost, and her hands went into her sleeves. “What’s with the seance?”

“Did some yoga and meditation while you were out.” Finally managed to get rid of some of the energy. “Missed it this morning. Haven't followed my entire routine while you’ve been here and…I should.” He needed to.

“Am I missing out on some secret ritual? I want in on the bath salts,” she teased.

“Just open the right door upstairs.”

There seemed like dozens. “Don’t want to accidentally enter the mansion you call a closet.”

He laughed, turning away from the pot and smiling at her. “It’s not _that_ big.” He lingered at her eyes that reflected the disbelieving smirk across her face. “I like that you’re here, Dani.”

"Me too.” Her eyes lowered to the counter and came back with pursed lips. “But do your thing, silly, or we're gonna miss your face around the precinct.” She certainly didn’t need to be entertained.

He put a last seasoning in the soup and dipped and held the spoon across the counter to her. “Tell me if this is good.”

“I trust your judgement,” she said, but he edged the spoon closer. She sipped the soup off the end, savoring the smoked paprika. “It’s good.”

Steam warmed the air between them. “I like this friends thing,” he announced as he ladled the soup into bowls. 

She smirked. Just how long had it been since he’d had a friend?

* * *

Dani was pleased he was actually eating some of his labor. He still finished first, his portion small, and filled time talking while she was eating.

“I’ll make you a nice dinner when I have better use of both hands," he promised. "Can dance with Sunshine.”

“You’re funny thinking I’m going to let you try that again.” One time formal dancing with Bright was enough, wasn’t it?

“Again?” His mind tried to place when she had danced with his bird.

“Never mind. Dinner sounds good.” What was she _doing_? They made future plans for a nice dinner. Did friends do nice dinners? What was a nice dinner to Bright? Oh no. As much as she hadn't wanted to accept keeping it, she supposed she still had the dress for the occasion. The way he had looked at her in that dress...

Before her mind could wander too much, Malcolm asked, “What’s your favorite color?”

“Is my answer going to lead to some psychological differential?” Her skepticism frowned her face.

A small chuckle. “No.”

“I have a few. Assuming pick one - green. You?”

“I’m more of a blue fellow.” His fingers exercised against the counter. “What are the other ones?”

“Black. Red. Grey.” Anything she enjoyed wearing.

“Went for the whole box of crayons, huh?” He smirked.

She had questions of her own. “Funniest Gil story.”

His hand rested on her knee, priming the delivery of his story. "He used to bribe me with stakeouts so I wouldn't hide in his car and go anyway. One time I popped up in the back seat, and he let out what is still one of the most colorful strings of curses I've heard him say."

"Worse than when you landed on his car?" Her eyes squinted in skepticism. His reaction to losing his car was more severe than dealing with Bright’s frequent bouts with injury.

"Yeah."

“JT got him with a magic snake in an evidence box. Can dented the ceiling.” And the next day, JT’s chair had fallen apart onto the floor.

“No way. JT?"

“Ya way.” She pushed his shoulder. “How’d you get good at cooking?”

“Jackie.” Memories of a warm hug surrounded him, pausing his speech for an extended moment. “Did you ever have Jackie’s jello? She’d layer the colors, and each flavor…”

The words faded as her friend continued to wander. His smile beamed. And his hand kept holding her knee.

* * *

Managing looked like smiles and chatter, silence and jitters. Picking up and continuing even though others couldn’t understand his world, his anything. Volleying between bouncing on top of the world and being crushed underneath it. Diving face first into everything, choosing to attempt to relax into nothing. Choosing to try with Dani, who’d extended him unconditional empathy.

Malcolm was cleaning up the kitchen when he offered, “Pick something on TV if you want. Ainsley’s left a bunch of subscriptions.”

“TVs should not come out of thin air,” she complained when she hit power and it rose from…where?

He sat beside her and handed her a bowl of jello. “Only if you talk about something else,” she said, waiting to take it from him.

“It’s so _good_ , and it’s mild enough on my stomach, and -“ His love of jello was endless like his love for the woman who had regularly made it for him.

She looked at him, still not taking it.

“Okay,” he stopped talking, and she took the dessert.

 _Snowpiercer_ had started with sitting and distance and turned into lounging with a blanket pulled over both of them.

His head ended up leaning against her shoulder, resting his eyes, listening to the movie. Not sleepy; just content to escape the light.

Her fingers combed through his hair a few times, thinking he was nearly asleep.

“Grooming increases endorphins - relaxation, pain relief, pleasure." He inventoried all of those feelings in floating on the couch, no pressure behind his eyes, warmth beyond the blanket.

Her hand stilled. "Thought you were taking a nap."

His voice sounded drowsy. “Thought we were watching a movie."

"One of us was." He suspected she was giving him one of her looks of disbelief. She had cultivated many.

"They're still on the train around the Earth. It's still cold." He might not be watching, but he was still listening. To the rise of her breaths, the low thrum of her pulse, the rub of her fingers against his head.

“You pretty comfortable there?” She ruffled his hair again.

“Mmm.” Could she do this all the time?

“You’re like a cat.”

"More lives." Dani's scoff bounced his head. "You want me to move?"

"No." Him moving didn't make any list. "Hey, what were you _really_ trying to tell me before you flew out the window?”

“Thank you for being a friend,” he recalled. “But it sounded too…Golden Girls.”

“Friend.” She pressed a light kiss into his hair.

* * *

Did she go to the gym every day? What was her favorite food? When did she start hiding her hands in her sweatshirts? What was the meaning behind her tattoo? Did she like fingers in her hair? What did her lips feel like?

He wanted to know _everything_. His brain functioned on information, churning through it to fuel his body vibrating with energy. But she didn’t have tolerance for endless questions. No one did, really. He could slowly ask and receive. Didn’t mean he couldn’t think of questions when he was supposed to -

Sleep. It wasn’t happening.

* * *

She heard the loft door close and turned over to her phone. 2AM. What was he restless about? Where did he go when he wandered? Did he revisit the same places or find new routes? Was it based on how he felt?

How long did he walk? Didn’t he get cold? If it helped settle him, did he even care? When she wanted to get away from it all, she didn’t care.

She missed the soft flannel of the well worn blanket on top of her bed. The water that sat beside it she’d sip when she couldn’t sleep. Her fleece-lined sweatpants. A light wash of makeup. Cheerios.

The loft door closed again, signaling his return. 3:15AM. Sleep. Dammit. _Sleeeeep_.

* * *

Stride, stride, stride, stride, step, step, turn. Stride, stride, stride, stride, step, step, turn. Feet padded above him on the hardwood, avoiding the expanse of rug around the bed. First it was background noise to his book, then it was the only thing he could focus on. He had been waiting for her to wake. Now she clearly was, but she wasn’t coming down.

* * *

When did friend turn into more than? When she sought his company? When she held his hand? When she melted from his genuine smile? When she traded her weekend to spend more time with him?

When she dreamed they were snuggled under the warm flannel of her bed?

He liked her - right? He found her hand when he could, transferring away some of his energy. Leaned against her, seeking her heat. Except all the justifications she used were exactly how she rationalized she was just being a friend. Nothing more than.

Did wanting more make her less than? “I’ll stay the weekend if you want,” she’d said. “I’ll leave if you want,” she’d said. But did he ever really see the choice? That she would have cleared his space the moment he said the word and still remained his friend? She was just trying to be a friend.

She would always care for him as a friend. Yes, and there were also experiences she would welcome, pursue that were more than.

 _Shit_ , she liked him. Internally freaked out over every harebrained scheme he took himself on. Some of his behaviors drove her insane. But his brain ran a mile a minute, sharp as the katana he kept locked in his weapons case, soft as the empathetic notes in his words and gazes, and she liked it. She liked _him_.

And how could she judge him when he annoyed her? She didn’t have to like it, hell, she never would. Never would stop giving him crap for taking something too far, scoring one more scratch in his tally of knucklehead points. But she wouldn’t judge him. There were parts of herself that weren’t favorable either. Didn’t mean she couldn’t like her. Didn’t mean she couldn’t like him.

She liked _him_.

Stride, stride - “Dani?” - stride, stride, step, step, turn.

His hand held something out to her from the doorway where he’d knocked. “Thought you might…it’s uh, lavender body wash. I find it calming.” Calming like when she brushed his hair. Calming like when he leaned into her.

Her hand landed on her hip. “You tryin’ ta tell me something?”

He looked down. “No.”

“Good.”

She crossed to take the bottle from him, but her hand found his hair instead. A soft press of her lips to his, and he learned her lips felt like a brilliant warmth spreading from his mouth. Her hand cupped his cheek and his fingers wound their way into her hair as one became two became - the body wash thudding to the ground.

Checking each other’s eyes, finding nothing more than gleam from the morning light. Soft, barely there kisses from her ear to the neck of her t-shirt. Leaned him into the doorframe learning which patches of stubble rumbled his throat, pulled her tight. And her thoughts of how he might react evaporated with any notion of a shower.

“This okay?” she asked, her hand slipping under the back of his shirt seeking warm, smooth skin.

“Of course.” A little breathless. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Kissing behind his ear, she could feel the corner of his smile against her cheek. When their tongues lingered, bristles of his beard prickled memories into her skin. Her hands wandered the expanse of his back, curved around his waist, grabbed his ass.

They wound up shirtless, Bright’s lips at her collarbone, palm over the thin fabric of her unlined bra, fingers kneading into her breast, when she took a deep breath. He stopped and straightened to meet her eyes, searching for anything that wasn’t alright.

“Do you want to do this?” she asked.

“Yes. Do you?” He held her arm at the elbow, soothing with his thumb. Maybe he’d gone too fast.

“Yes.” Air escaped between her teeth. “You clean?" The same authority she used when asking questions for a case.

"Yes. You?"

"Yes."

The bra she’d worn a few too many days in a row fell, and his hand sought her newly exposed skin. Padded one nipple with his thumb, lapped the other to a pert nub. Angled his leg between hers, and when he got the combination just right, she’d press against him, grinding near his hip, his bulge nudging into her thigh. She didn’t know what to expect, yet with each passing moment, she felt _alive_.

The bruises over his shoulder were purpled, mottled, and angry to have been his landing place on Gil’s ride. Injuries he’d tried to hide that disappeared into the doorframe.

"Come up a second," she said, guiding his lips back to hers.

She turned him, feathering kisses across the bruises on his back. Whispered pain relief and hope they’d soon pass. Rubbed the hidden muscles of his stomach. Cupped him through his pants.

His hand slid between them and under her waistband, his fingers slicking in the warmth between her thighs. Swept across her folds. Circled her bud, a murmur leaking into his shoulders. His fingertips so soft, endearingly gentle, building a pressure that yearned for release.

More than was the world being lighter when he was in her hands. One strapped across his chest while she nipped his neck, leaving a certain trail of red. The other gripped his firm cock, stroking around the head, knocking at his shorts and whimpering to be freed.

More than was his fingers pushing inside, one and two and - “Hey, um, that doesn’t feel good” - and she guiding him until the uncomfortable pull turned into an indirect stroke and a moan warmed his back.

More than was blushing remembering his condoms were downstairs, but she revealing she had found some in the nightstand. Deftly rolling one on. Her ease leaning the back of his thighs against the bed, hooking her leg behind him, and melding their bodies standing chest to chest.

More than was trying and listening, changing and slowing, creeping up to the edge and going until they’d come. She panting, he grunting, covered in sweat, slick, and _fun_.

More than was untangling, sharing straggling kisses, and each retreating to a bathroom, alone.

* * *

It wasn’t that he hadn’t experienced her beauty. He’d watched it shine every time they’d bantered on a case, every time she’d cared for someone. Every time she’d cared for _him_.

It was that he respected her enough to consider maybe he wasn’t what she wanted, maybe the timing wasn’t right. He needed his friend. He was out of practice with friends. Should she want to be anything more than, that’d be fine.

It was more than fine.

* * *

There didn’t need to be a line. Not a declaration from a man before jumping out a window. Not a profession of why life was easier in each other’s orbits. Not a discussion of how life would be different if they got undressed.

Lines only led her to spend too much time in her head. At Bright’s rate, he’d be dead before she found it.

He’d told her she looked amazing. When the top of his lip curled and his eyes dazed, spent, he looked amazing.

And she’d do it again.

* * *

Malcolm’s nose knew before he saw grilled cheese on the counter. His hand rubbed across Dani’s shoulders, lingering a moment before sitting beside her and pouring a cup of coffee. “Smells good,” he noted as he reached for his pills.

She finished chewing another bite of her sandwich. “It is. Have some.”

“Gonna stick with coffee for now.” Temperamental stomach.

“‘Kay.”

"I normally do yoga in the morning,” he explained.

She smirked. “Does that come before or after sex in your daily routine?"

His eyes angled over to her, imparting half an eye-roll in place of words.

"Go ahead." She wouldn’t get in the way.

"Want to join? It'll help stretch your legs."

"I know yoga, smartass." She pushed his shoulder. "Sure."

* * *

He needed prompting to break out of a particularly rough flashback of the basement. Space to retreat to the shower and scrub the sights unseen. Time to spend in his office journaling.

It gave her time to strip the sheets from the bed. Start the laundry. Collect her things. Think of another visit. Daydream.

He gave her a kiss that whispered thank you and I'll see you soon.

And she put on her shoes.

* * *

She never did get a bath in that wonderful tub. Wasn’t too draining as far as regrets. Lavender wafted off her skin, releasing its enveloping hold from after sex.

She'd have to go back for her nice dinner, try soaking in that tub, and visit her friend. Her _friend_ , and -

* * *

_fin_


End file.
